


A certain amount of delicacy and a fair trade

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Finger Sucking, Other, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, as usual, i thought i had more tags but its just pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 08:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13854240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: “Misfire!” he growls in an outburst of his frustration. “Can you just—for asecond— Shh!” He claps his hand over Misfire’s mouth before he realizes what he’s doing, and things escalate at an exponential speed from there.





	A certain amount of delicacy and a fair trade

**Author's Note:**

> MORE? Miscrum???? Happy Birthday, someone.
> 
>  
> 
> (Happy two consecutive birthdays? Don't worry about it maybe)

Fulcrum likes to think he’s not an especially trigger-happy person. Hell, that’s been a major plot point in his life. While it might not take much to spook him into evasive action or even inaction as far as combat and loyalty go, he prides himself on being above-average levels of resistant to teasing, needling, harassment, and other such invitations to verbal confrontation. It makes it easy to get along with pretty much anyone, given that teasing, needling, and harassment seem to be common staples of Cybertronian banter.

But then, everyone has their off days.

Maybe that’s not what this is. Maybe it’s not his fault he’s not getting peak satisfaction today from Misfire’s rhythmless hips slamming up between his spread legs because it’s _Misfire_ who’s distracted, by the seemingly endless tale he’s telling, rather than Fulcrum by hearing it. He might be especially sloppy today. It’s not something that typically bothers Fulcrum, because he usually overloads by Misfire’s hand (or mouth) or his own, and the point of today’s frustration isn’t the coming to fruition of a building resentment he’s been harboring. Which sounds like sarcasm, but it really isn’t. Besides, it’s not the destination that’s important, it’s the journey.

Or so they say. Right now Fulcrum’s pretty dead set on that destination. And regretfully, his theory doesn’t hold much water because he’s been doing most of the work for the bulk of their engagement, after he’d wordlessly maneuvered Misfire underneath him on the berth and straddled him.

Today his wretched frame is punishing him for unknowable reasons, dangling orgasm just out of reach, dipping the prize every once in a while and then yanking it back so he just can’t get to it. There’s a burning, almost sickly knot in the base of his array from their sustained interfacing. It feels like it’s been an hour, and the only reason he knows it hasn’t been is because that would have been a record by the better portion of the hour. After all, this is Misfire’s second round. And it’s Fulcrum’s hubris for insisting on barreling through that’s now kicking him in the aft.

But no, no matter how he angles his own hips and grinds down on Misfire’s spike or how he pins his fingers to his node or how he squeezes his spike in time with the contractions of his valve, it’s not enough, and he can’t even focus on why because Misfire is _still talking._

“I’m telling you, you couldn’t even imagine the face he made when I told him— It was like that look Crankcase got when Krok told him we had extra fuel in cargo but he didn’t realize the canisters were actually full of that weird acid Spinister liked because it glowed pink, and then we were on fumes 600,000 miles from the next stop— Remember? But it was like, eight times worse than that look. He-he was so mad.”

Misfire’s speech falters but does not stop as Fulcrum picks up speed again, chasing the desperate, fervent dream he has to just have _one fucking overload today_ as it fades abruptly out of reach while Misfire claims the fruits of Fulcrum’s labor. Normally, this would not be a point of contention, but Fulcrum feels himself being edged for about the eighth time today and he messily and roughly lifts himself off Misfire’s spike and collapses down on top of his thighs a little further south. His calipers give an almost painful twitch and the throb inside him laments the lack of friction nearly as much as his inner nodes are thankful for a reprise.

“Misfire!” he growls in an outburst of his frustration. “Can you just—for a _second—_ Shh!” He claps his hand over Misfire’s mouth before he realizes what he’s doing, and things escalate at an exponential speed from there.

As soon as Fulcrum’s mouth stifles Misfire’s speech, Misfire’s optics register in the span of a second, confusion—and then instinctive rebellion. He flattens his glossa over Fulcrum’s palm, which, for all things considered with the fluids they’ve already exchanged today, shouldn’t be as horrible of a sensation as it most assuredly is. But in his heightened state of...everything, it’s do or die right now, so he responds by twisting his fingers around and shoving them into Misfire’s mouth. He’s not sure if his intention was to grab the offending article or something else, but the balance shifts for the fourth time in about two seconds when Misfire’s hands snap from his hips to his wrist.

And another second passes where they’re still, until Fulcrum feels a much lighter pass of Misfire’s glossa over his the pads of his fingers. The heat inside him gives a pleading throb and he swallows, letting everything from his shoulder to his fingertips go limp while the rest of him coils up in tension. Misfire wriggles slightly under him and draws his fingers out with just the very tip pressed against his lips, which now shine with lubricant and a devious smile.

Fulcrum swallows.

Misfire presses his fingers into the flexible parts of Fulcrum’s palm and twists his hand so that he can angle just one finger back slowly into his mouth, in and out, and Fulcrum never would have guessed that his own hand could be susceptible to such a distinct, light pleasure rooting straight back to his array.

“Okay, you can cut it out,” Fulcrum says nervously, watching and feeling his finger disappear between Misfire’s lips and slowly slide back out. “I’m sorry I— _Oh_ _hell,_ why does that feel good?” He mutters, his frame shuddering from the jolt of the spark of Misfire’s denta nipping down on the very tip of his finger. And yet it’s torture that his fingers are so warm and his array is now so cold as the air mixes cruelly with drying fluids.

Misfire drops the act momentarily and frowns. “You could have just _said_ if you were bored, you know.”

Now that his fingers are out of Misfire’s mouth, he wants them back in, either his mouth or somewhere else. His whole being seems centered around the middle of his palm where Misfire’s thumbs are pressing into the crease.

Fulcrum is distracted by an onslaught of mental images and answers a beat too late. “I was listening, or I would listen, after. I was just a little distracted... D-D’you think you could just—?” He wiggles his fingers just a little bit. Misfire arches an optic ridge at him with the distinct flavor of smugness and Fulcrum’s pride is chipped away a little more. “Come on, please?” He shifts his hips over the empty space between Misfire’s thighs to absolutely no effect whatsoever.

“Fine, but I’m gonna start over when this is done. I promise, you’ll laugh. There’s a good payoff.” Misfire flashes a brief smile that shrinks to something more mischievous and presses an uncharacteristically coy, soft kiss to the tips of his glistening fingers. This time he takes the next one over, sliding it in and out of his mouth again at that same aching pace.

A surge rips through Fulcrum’s spike with a potency that insists he’s been ignoring where his real desires really lie. He seals his own lips together to muffle a sound his vocalizer makes of its own accord. Obvious. It was really obvious and he wasn’t paying attention, and now he’s getting all caught up in imagery, participating in the delaying of his satisfaction of his own accord now. Cautiously, he nudges his finger into Misfire’s mouth beside the second, presses in and turns his fingertips down against Misfire’s tongue in very purposeful movement.

Misfire gives a shiver and a small moan that causes Fulcrum’s appendages to slip from his lips and rest on his lower lip, and Fulcrum has to swallow again. Fulcrum is eyeing his own fingers, which are slick and shining with oral lubricant in a way that’s lewd all on its own. He nudges his fingers back around Misfire’s lips, who guides him by the palm and again swallows them down.

Fulcrum rubs the tips of his fingers against Misfire’s tongue in tiny circular motions before dragging them up and back across the length of it. Misfire swallows around them, drawing the space tight and allowing fresh surge of wetness to envelop them as Fulcrum watches his throat twitch with the effort of surpassing his fresh arousal. And this even is yet a precursor to foreplay.

Misfire drags Fulcrum’s fingers back across his lips again.

“Can you—”

“Let me spike you.”

Misfire abandons what he’d been in the middle of saying when they’d spoken up at the same time and laughs. “Someone has a lot of demands today. Someone being _you._ ”

Fulcrum scoffs indignantly. “Like you weren’t going to say the same thing.”

He grins again. “I was gonna _say—_ These aren’t much used to me up here.”  He pushes Fulcrum’s hand back towards his body, which is also where his array is, and his valve panel retracts in the next instant.

“So quit teasing me,” Fulcrum complains. The blow is softened by the soft, satisfying grip of Misfire’s calipers around his fingers when he presses them in.

Misfire’s response is late this time for the gasp he sucks in at the sensation, but he still manages to snark. “Says the guy who was trying to _pleasure my tongue._ You asked to stick your fingers back in my mouth, idiot.”

“Well, you moaned,” Fulcrum points out. It’s a losing battle, and the only way he can hope to come out with the last word is if he repeats the movements he’d practiced on Misfire’s tongue against the charged sensors in his valve. And he does, at the expense of a soft groan and a sharp look. His own valve still contracts wistfully as he easily imagines echoes the sensations he’s providing, aided by the simple shifting as he moves his thighs from over Misfire’s thighs to in between them. He scrubs his fingers back and forth over a few primed nodes a few times, feeling the responsive sparking of charge in his field and the corresponding ripple of Misfire’s valve walls around them.

Fulcrum’s spike aches with anticipation of being inside this seldom-felt tight heat, so potently and indisputably that it surprises him that he hadn’t realized how much he wanted it earlier. Their typical preferences just happen to align more often than not, being that Fulcrum favors his valve and Misfire his spike. But occasionally those interests flip and Fulcrum finds he craves the plush pull of mesh-lined calipers gripping his cord, and now is certainly one of those times.

He wants Misfire ready and dripping for it. A few more hard thrusts just to have him anticipating a more complete brush of friction, and then Fulcrum twists his hand out and round, sliding two fingers pressing on either side of Misfire’s node to play at it while he grinds the side of his hand into his opening. Misfire’s gripping the edge of the berth and arching into this one point, and lets out a twisting moan as Fulcrum keeps rubbing the little nub with a firm and unrelenting pressure.

“I always forget how hot you are like this,” he admits without really processing what he’s said, with a following unspoken observation that he tends to lose careful restraint of his words when put in this position.

Misfire lets out another wanton little sound and shoves his hips up against Fulcrum’s hand again. “Sounds like a compliment, feels like you’re bragging,” he gasps, along with a softer choked swear.

“It can be both,” Fulcrum suggests. He’s pretty sure he could make Misfire come like this with just a little more attention of the same kind, since, no point in denying it, but he’s pretty good at this particular kind of stimulation. But he’ll save that for later, because just as Misfire’s greater sensitivity lies here, so does his in his less often opted-for instrument of interfacing. Plus, he really feels like he’s earned it by now.

He breaks off Misfire’s node for one more dip into his valve, this time stroking long and slow, coaxing him further into a state of readiness. Misfire’s lubricant coats his own thighs and the better part of Fulcrum’s hand, and Fulcrum is now at the point where he’d be surprised if he lasted more than a few minutes actually engaged, for all the build up and back down he’s had today.

He spreads the swollen lips of Misfire’s valve apart wide with an appreciative glance as he draws fingers back for the last time. Misfire whines, eagerly sinking into a submissive role and flapping his hands towards Fulcrum as if he wants to grab at him. Fulcrum is not rushed by this, since Misfire’s admitted before that he likes playing up his desperation, claiming it’s more fun that way. Fulcrum has his suspicions that this is a subtle way of making fun of him, but he lets it slide because he’s got bigger preoccupations. Besides, he’s right. It is more fun that way.

He reaches under Misfire’s back to lift him better and fumbles for his overdrawn desire for release, but necessity guides his spike into Misfire’s blessedly tight valve. Fulcrum folds down over him to sob into Misfire’s neck, taking advantage of his own flexibility. Misfire’s hands loop under his arms and grip at the mostly smooth plating of his back.

In a perfect world, Fulcrum would have him up against the wall so he could more easily tease at his wingtips and feel that crazy flier sensitivity around his spike, but this is more than enough for now. Misfire’s eager squirming is immediate, so Fulcrum wastes no time working up to a pace that suits him, and he suspects now, his partner. Light vocalizations dust condensation across the plating of Misfire’s shoulders as friction starts to build to a more promising conclusion now.

“Misfire—” Fulcrum whines into his neck, feeling inappropriately sentimental over something as fleeting as an overload, especially considering it hasn’t happened yet. But it will, this time he’s sure it will, and damn it all if he won’t appreciate it. Misfire nods frantically in response, too wrought up over the rippling of his valve squeezing around Fulcrum’s spike with an almost harmful intent to return the address.

They rock together in a tangle of limbs and sounds that Fulcrum doesn’t doubt for their sincerity, whatever Misfire might say about fun. The pleasure here has been well-earned by both parties, but especially Fulcrum, from his own limited perspective that might as well be the truth for all the investigation it’s getting. True to his prediction, before long he feels that edge approaching again, and again Misfire beats him to the punch, but this time the spasming contractions clenching over his spike push him over it, finally, in an overload so strong it makes him reconsider religion and possibly offline for a few seconds.

When everything is still again—save for the heaving of chest armor as air tanks swell with massive intakes, and of course every atom of his metal vibrating so hard he thinks his whole being might dissociate—Fulcrum summons the will to fling himself over on the berth from a source that’ll surely collect his spark to repay the debt.

He hears Misfire draw in about six intakes, and in one more he could almost certainly be dead-locked in recharge, but Misfire’s hand flops onto his chest. His vents haven’t even slowed to normal and he says, “Okay, so now that you’re not horngry anymore, I can tell you my story.”


End file.
